


Symptoms of a Broken Heart

by Walsingham



Category: QI RPF
Genre: Cancer, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, heart cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walsingham/pseuds/Walsingham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, Stephen doesn't realise what's wrong, but both of them missed the elephant in the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symptoms of a Broken Heart

   Stephen had been able to ignore his unwanted feeling for years, passing it off as on-screen flirtatious banter for eight series. Although he was sure everyone knew, no one mentioned it until Alan fell asleep on his shoulder while they waited to be called to rehearsal. Jo Brand caught Stephen tucking one of Alan's locks off the sleeping man's forehead and behind his ear.

   "He's never going to know unless you tell him," she said as she walked in, raising an eyebrow at the pair. As cliché as it sounded, Stephen knew she was right, but he wasn't sure he wanted to tell him. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardise what they had now.

   Stephen watched his friend sleep until they were sent for. Jo left with the messenger, letting Stephen wake Alan gently.

* * *

   Three weeks later, Stephen made Alan laugh. Not the soft chuckle he reserved for the guests, but a laugh that brought tears to the smaller man's eyes, as well as a coughing fit. They were forced to halt the recording so that Alan's make-up could be reset. When he returned to his seat, his fist was pressed against his chest.

   Throughout the remainder of the recording, Alan would regularly turn away to cough into a handkerchief, lips faintly blue, but he always turned back with a smile to send Stephen's heart fluttering.

* * *

   Another two weeks passed without incident, but Stephen was doing another show at the same time, regrettably restricting what he saw of Alan. When they did finally meet up again for QI, Stephen immediately noticed that the other man appeared to have lost weight, his regular button-up shirt looser than usual. But with the happiness the sight of Alan brought him, he soon dismissed it. He didn't realise there was a problem until, in the middle of rehearsal, there was a loud bang to Stephen's right.

   His neck cricked as his head snapped to Alan's overturned seat. Alan himself was lying on his back beside the chair, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes closed. Before Stephen could get to him, Jack Dee was out of his seat to Alan's right and fanning the fallen man's face with an exercise book. Two nameless camera-men were helping Alan to sit up as his eyelids fluttered open. His erratic breathing eased as he was assisted back into his chair, and his pale face regained its colour with each sip of water from the bottle under his desk. Suddenly irritated, he waved away the people around him. The producer approached to ask what was wrong, and Alan angrily dismissed him, muttering something about forgetting to take his iron pills that morning. A five-minute break was called for, by the end of which Alan had snapped back to his usual on-screen self.

* * *

   It was the wrap party of series I, and the guests of the final episode had joined Stephen and Alan for a celebratory drink in the tearoom. Just as they clinked glasses with a cheer, Alan's raised hand shook, and the thick glass fell out of his grip, shattering on the floor, the liquid reaching for their feet. Eyes scrunched firmly closed, he gasped for breath and clutched at his chest. He backed into a plastic fold-up table behind him and fell to his knees. Another glass joined the first on the floor as Stephen rushed forward.

   "Alan!  _Alan!_ " he yelled as the other man convulsed with coughs in his arms. Unable to reach for his handkerchief, Alan's hand covered his mouth as his body shook violently. Blood splattered onto his hand, the fingertips faintly blue and dribbled down his chin. Stephen put a hand to his friend's chest to steady him, and felt his rapid heartbeat through the thin shirt.

   Around them, the room was chaos. Jimmy Carr had gone for help as soon as Alan had collapsed, and paramedics were soon wrenching Alan from Stephen's arms, jabbing drips into his veins and loading him onto a stretcher. Stephen tried to reach out to him, but he was pushed away. There was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to focus his tear-filled eyes on a remarkably calm Jo.

   "We'll follow in my car," she said, and helped the man up, pulling him to the car-park. They threw themselves into the driver and passenger seats, not bothering to do up their seatbelts as Jo pulled out of the car-park and followed the ambulance's flashing lights.

   "You've got to tell him, Stephen! I'm sorry to say it, but you may not get another chance!" she yelled over the roar of the engine and the sounds of the horns around them as they broke every road rule, one by one. Stephen could only nod.

   They reached the hospital in record time, but the ambulance was able to go to the emergency entrance, whereas Jo could only drive to the visitor's entrance. Stephen practically launched himself out of the car and through the automatic sliding doors of the hospital, where there was already a nurse to great him. The nurse held a clipboard out to him.

   "Mr Fry? Sign this and take a seat," he asked. Stephen signed, almost ripping the paper with the pressure he pressed the pen to the document.

   "How is he? What's wrong?" he asked, twisting his hands together.

   "The doctors will tell you what they can when you see him," the nurse replied, indicating for Stephen to sit. He walked over and sat for four seconds, before jumping up and pacing frantically, barely keeping the tears at bay.

   It was the worst three minutes and forty-eight second wait of his life, constantly alternating between sitting down and marching a path into the linoleum tiles.

   "Mr Fry?" the nurse appeared in front of him and he froze, "level three, room twenty-six, the lifts are to your left."

   Stephen barely let him finish before striding off and hammering the 'up' button with his thumb. After an eternity, the lift doors opened, mercifully empty. He stepped in, pressed the button for level three and the doors slid silently closed. As the lift rose, Stephen's mind tortured him with worst-case scenarios.  _What if he was too late? What if Alan was already dead? He'd never get the chance to tell him. He'd never know._

   Then the lift doors opened, and he ran blindly down the corridor, slowing as the number got lower, stopping completely outside room twenty-six. The handle twisted and the door opened, a young doctor stepping through.

   "Mr Fry, I'm Dr Rochester," the doctor extended his hand and Stephen shook it, trying to calm his breathing. "I'll be looking after Mr Davies, but I'm afraid that he is showing the signs of advanced heart cancer. Right now, he is in an induced coma, and we can wake him up, but not for long. Once he loses consciousness again, it may not be possible to resuscitate him. Even if we could, I would strongly advise against it, as it would only cause him pain. Before we let you see him, can you please tell me how long ago you began to notice that something was wrong?"

   It took Stephen a little while to collect his thoughts again.  _Heart cancer. Advanced. Oh my…_

   "Mr Fry?"

   "God, sorry." Stephen tried to think, racking his brain. "A-about two weeks ago, he collapsed and couldn't breathe properly on set. H-he was also thinner than before, but I didn't really think anything of it."

   Stephen buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

   "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

   Nodding, he continued without lifting his head. "Three weeks before that, he had a coughing fit because I made him laugh, but that's probably nothing, isn't it?"

   "Probably not, sir, but I'm afraid it's too late for it to make a difference. I'm so sorry."

   "Can I see him now, please?" Stephen asked, straightening up. The doctor silently opened the door behind him, following Stephen through. Stephen stood to the side as Dr Rochester did what he had to do to wake Alan up. Stephen examined the white-washed wall beside him until he was told to approach. The doctor left silently as Alan stirred. Stephen reminded himself to breathe before he turned his eyes to his friend.

   Alan was already watching him, blue lips parted slightly and fingers twitching. Stephen rushed forward, clasping those fingers in his own. He knelt beside the bed, carefully avoiding the tubes and wires sticking out of Alan and the various beeping machines.

   "Oh my Alan. I'm so sorry. Of anyone, I really wish it hadn't been you," Stephen whispered, holding the smaller man's hand to his wet cheek.

   "Better me than you," Alan croaked.

   "No, it's really not." Freeing one hand from Alan's, Stephen reached up to touch Alan's pale cheek, "don't say that." He lowered his head and let the tears flow freely, running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin onto their hands.

   "Hey, it's not the end of the world," Alan said, cracking a half-hearted smile, but his reddening eyes gave him away.

_He had to tell him._

   "But it  _is_ , don't you understand? You are my world, Alan Roger Davies. You have been for years. _I love you_ , for God's sake!" Stephen cried between sobs. Still, he didn't raise his head.

   " _Then why did you wait so long to tell me?_ " Alan's outcry turned into a bout of coughing, blood speckling the white sheet covering him. A nurse hurried in, shooting an unimpressed look as Stephen. She re-adjusted the morphine drip and, once Alan had stopped coughing, wiped his face clean of blood. Stephen kept silent, mulling over an answer until she left, closing the door behind her.

   "I was scared to ruin what we had. I was happier not knowing if there was even the smallest chance of that," he eventually said, almost whispering.

   Alan sighed sadly, picking at the bed sheet with his free hand. "I suppose it's the same reason I never told you."

   There was a beat as Stephen clocked what Alan had just said, but the second it hit home, Stephen finally looked up. He moved the hand on Alan's cheek up to the younger man's temple, his fingers brushing through the trademark hair. Slowly he stood up, his knees cracking. Weakly, Alan reached out for him, thin fingers closing around Stephen's bright orange tie, pulling him down slowly. Their entwined hands parted, Alan's going to the back of Stephen's head, Stephen's moving to trace Alan's jawline, made more prominent by the cancer.

   "I don't want to hurt you," Stephen's breath brushed away strand of Alan's hair as he murmured, their foreheads almost touching. Using what little of his strength he had left, Alan pushed himself up, and their lips met, eyes fluttering as he blocked out a surge of pain in his chest.

   Even as they kissed, Stephen could feel Alan's body shuddering in his arms, his breath trembling against Stephen's skin. Carefully, he pulled away, choosing just to hold Alan for the last few minutes. Alan's tears soaked into his shirt as he tucked his head under Stephen's chin, wrapping his arms around the larger man's torso tightly. Stephen supported Alan's body weight, holding him close, fingers running through the curls.

   And like that they stayed, even as Stephen felt Alan's arms loosen their grip, heard his breathing catch and grow shallow. Even as Alan's arms fell limply to the bed, the flat-line replacing the rise and fall of his chest. No doctors or nurses came, and Stephen didn't call for them.

   "I'll see you soon," he whispered as he lay his love down to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Kudos + concrit always welcome!  
> xxx


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